


The Will of the Force

by madasthesea



Series: Nice work, kid [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Minor Injuries, jedi order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 13:10:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15908928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madasthesea/pseuds/madasthesea
Summary: Tony and Peter end up as mentor and mentee in a different universe. Or, should we say, Master and Padawan.





	The Will of the Force

**Author's Note:**

> For the wonderful prompt: "Hi! I love your iron dad and spider son fics!! <3 I don't know if you're still taking prompts, but I would love to see you tackle a Star Wars AU with Tony and Peter (and maybe other Avengers), or just them + anything Star Wars related? (I have a soft spot for fics where Tony calls Peter "Padawan" as a nickname lmao)"

 

Tony Stark stepped off the boarding ramp and into the docking bay of the Temple, the familiar hum of being surrounded by Force-sensitive souls settling deep into his bones. It had been a stultifying day at the Senate chambers, and he was tired of sitting still.

James Rhodes found him on the way to the salles, his long brown robes swishing behind him, looking every bit the Jedi Master he was. Not that Tony was jealous; he would rather remain a Knight then have to sit in boring Council meetings every day. And if anyone deserved it, it was Rhodey.

“Tones,” Rhodey greeted. “How was Senate?”

“Just for asking that question, you are my victim of choice tonight,” Tony grumbled, weaving his way through the crowd of younglings leaving the refectory.

“Oh, please. You never beat me unless you cheat,” Rhodey scoffed. That was true, but Tony didn’t look at it as cheating, merely being creative and using all the resources at his disposal. It had saved his life more times than he could count, and he wasn’t going to stop now.

“I don’t know,” Tony argued for the mere sake of arguing. “I’ve been listening to pompous senators debating the finer points of Chandrilan trade deals the entire day, I’m in the mood to thrash someone.”

Rhodey raised an eyebrow. Despite Tony’s tough talk, he was not usually one for dueling to release pent up tension. He preferred to hide in the underbellies of the Temple, repairing ships and scrapped droids.

Regardless of his usual activities, tonight Tony determinedly led them through the winding lower levels until they reached the largest dojo. Again, rather odd. Tony tended to keep to the smaller, less used private rooms.

There were several junior padawans already there, dueling and running through kata under the watchful eye of the Swordmistress, Master Natasha Romanoff. When the two masters joined them they respectfully drew to one side of the room, leaving plenty of space for the two to spar.

Tony shed his long cloak, dropping it in a corner as he adjusted the setting on his lightsaber, lowering it to training level. It flared to life, a blue so pale it was practically white. The low humming of the crystal resonated in the Force and Tony smiled.

Rhodey’s own saber hissed into existence, green and steady. He smirked a little bit, dark eyes flicking over Tony’s relaxed stance.

In the corner, the padawans were slowing down, pausing to watch the duel.

Tony struck first. He always struck first.

The fight was fast, sabers screaming as they cut the air, spitting hot sparks as they connected, disengaged, and met again. Tony let himself sink into the Force, let it carry him as he jumped and twisted, his particular style of Ataru like a hurricane of white-blue fire around him.

Regardless of Tony’s impressive skill—and he  _was_ good. One of the best, if he was honest. It wasn’t pride if it was true—Rhodey was still better. A bastion of diligent obedience, Rhodey preferred a standard form of Soresu that Tony had yet to break through consistently.

By the end of the battle, they were both panting and sweaty, and every padawan in the dojo had stopped to watch.

“Back to it,” Master Romanoff said, ushering them along. She cast a fond glare over her shoulder at Tony and Rhodey as the padawans snapped back into action. All except one, who had been practicing kata at an almost alarming speed before they’d taken the stage. He kept watching, and, just for a moment, met Tony’s eye.

Tony raised an eyebrow at him. The boy gave a short bow of apology across the room, then flicked his saber back to life and started drilling the Ataru Velocity 4 again.

Tony followed Rhodey to the changing rooms, eager to switch his damp tunic for a fresh one.

“That was Ben’s padawan,” Rhodey remarked as they entered.

“I remember.”

He did. Vividly.

Knight Ben Fitzpatrick had been killed on a mission only a week earlier. His padawan had been with him.

Tony hadn’t known Ben at all, barely familiar with his face and name. But when a Jedi died, everyone went to the funeral.

It was pure luck that had landed him directly across the amphitheater from the now master-less Peter Parker.

He remembered watching the boy, his face hidden by his dark cowl, like every other Jedi’s. Death was a reminder of anonymity, they said.

Just as the pyre lit up, a beam of pure light shooting from the floor where they had laid Ben’s body, Peter looked up. Their eyes met across the space and the Force  _sang_. It was unlike anything Tony had ever experienced.

It was as if, in that heartbeat of eye contact, Tony had known Peter. His grief, his guilt, his fear. All those things a good Jedi released to the Force, it was if Peter was releasing them to him, instead, trusting them over to Tony to absolve him of. And, even stranger, Tony found himself welcoming the emotion, the turmoil, found himself longing to take them from this  _child_.

Ben had taken Peter as his padawan at ten years old. They’d been together four years before Ben was killed. He was still so young, so full of potential.

Tony had thought about him a lot, these last three days.

“What has the council decided to do with him?” Tony asked, trying to sound casual as he stripped his layers.

Rhodey froze, looking at him intently. “Are you considering taking him on?”

“What? No, Rhodes. I was just wondering. You know I—”

“You swore never to take an apprentice,” Rhodey interrupted. “I remember. And I still think it’s ridiculous.”

Tony scowled. He’d heard this lecture before. But he stood by it. He was not meant to have a padawan, to be trusted so completely with teaching and training and supporting a child. Not after what his own master had done to him.

“Have the council discussed him?” Tony prodded again, pulling on a clean undertunic.

“You know those meetings are not for public knowledge, don’t you?” When Tony just glared at him, Rhodey sighed. “Mace is thinking of taking him on. He’s too gifted to go the Agri-Corps.”

“Mace? No, Peter can’t learn Vapaad. He’s one of the best Ataru swordsmen in this temple,” Tony protested, screwing up his face.

Rhodey smirked. “A master who practices Ataru would probably be best for him, then.”

“Probably,” Tony said, adjusting his tabards on final time with a sniff and sweeping out of the room before Rhodey could say anything else.

 

That night, before the archives closed, Tony settled at a data terminal and shamelessly broke into Peter’s sealed records. Sending an innocent grin at Madame Nu as she peered down her nose at him, Tony sifted through the boy’s information.

There were the standard medical records. He had been treated a few times for nightmares, which Tony found odd but not particularly worrisome. He was more interested in the class records.

He smiled as he looked at them. Two levels ahead in most of his courses, top of his class in the others. A proficiency for mathematics and mechanics.

He quickly cleared the data, offering Madame Nu a bow and another broad smile as he left.

 

Tony had always had trouble sleeping when his mind was occupied. His old master used to Force-compel him to sleep regularly, something that had seemed comforting at the time and now made him ill to think about. He’d tried meditating the insomnia away, tried hot teas and thick scents of incense. When nothing worked, he took to wandering the halls of the Temple.

He was passing the upper dormitory levels when he saw a small figure slip into a turbo lift, their hood drawn up, the heels of their boots not touching the ground. It looked suspiciously like a youngling sneaking out of their quarters. A very familiar youngling.

Tony followed the figure down three levels to the training salles. Sure enough, after bringing the lights up just a bit with a gesture, the figure dropped their cloak. It was Peter, looking pale and determined. He plucked his own saber off his belt, but also took one of the training sabers from the stand. He turned them both on, his own saber burning sapphire in the dark.

For nearly an hour, Tony watched as Peter drilled Jar’kai kata, again and again, his thin chest heaving as he started over for the fiftieth time. But the training saber was too long for the reverse grip he was practicing with and he was too exhausted to compensate for its length.

The blade caught Peter on the hip, got tangled with the hilt of the other lightsaber, and dragged a burning welt up his side.

Tony stepped forward. Peter’s head jerked up. He should have known that he was being watched the entire time, should have felt it in the Force, but he’d been distracted. Tony had been able to tell. He should have stopped him before he hurt himself.

“Master Stark,” Peter stammered, his eyes wide. He jaw was clenched from the pain.

“You shouldn’t practice when you’re tired. It leads to injuries,” Tony remarked with a slight smirk. That stutter had undoubtedly been trained out of Peter when he was still a crecheling, and the fact that Tony had startled him enough to bring it back was oddly endearing.  

“It’s not that bad, Master,” Peter said quietly, remembering the bow he had neglected earlier.

“If I take you to the healers, you’ll get in trouble for being in here on your own at night.” Tony sidled a little closer to Peter, peering at the blackened fabric of the boy’s tunic.

“Yes,” Peter agreed, looking hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he was going to get in trouble anyway.

“I have some bacta in my rooms. Come on,” he said, turning and leaving without checking to see if Peter was following. He’d been ordered to, so he should. But that didn’t necessarily mean he would.

There was a moment of silence, and then dutiful footfalls behind him. Tony smirked again.

The walk back to the living quarters was silent. The pain from the burn was obviously starting to bother Peter. He was biting his lip the whole ride in the lift, his eyes closing for a few seconds at a time as he tried to release the pain into the Force.

Tony steered them both toward his rooms, waving a hand lazily in front of the door to get it to slide open. Another wave and the lights came on, allowing Tony to weave through the small mess of meditation cushions and head toward the ‘fresher, where pulled a half-used container of bacta out of a cabinet.

When he came back, Peter was still standing in the same place Tony had left him, looking uncertain.

“Sit,” Tony instructed. Peter sat.

“Have they told you what’s going to happen to you next?” Tony asked as he smeared ointment onto his fingers. He wasn’t sure why he brought this up now; it was probably a sensitive topic, and Tony doubted Peter wanted to talk about it to a stranger.

The Force tensed with Peter’s surprise. Tony waited.

“No. I… I think they intend to send me to the Agri-Corps.” Peter whispered.

“Do you? And how would you feel about being a farmer?” He tried to be gentle as he dabbed the medicine onto Peter’s burn.

“I will serve wherever they need me to,” Peter answered. “There’s no greater honor in being a Knight than a farmer.” It was a rehearsed answer, like he’d spent the last week telling himself that.

“That’s true,” Tony agreed, sitting up so he could look Peter in the eye. “And yet, farmers don’t break curfew to practice saberplay.”

Peter looked down into his lap. His padawan braid swung over his shoulder—Tony looked at the markings adorning it; blue for mechanics, yellow for weaponry, and, just above the tufted end of the braid, a black band. For bereavement.  

Tony reached forward and tugged gently on the braid. Peter watched the movement, his eyes lingering on the reminder of his loss.

“My Master died,” he said quietly, “because I wasn’t good enough.”

Tony held very still. “What makes you think that?”

“There was a fight,” Peter confessed in a whisper. “I was disarmed  _so easily_. I called my saber back, but I was too slow. The rebels, they were going to shoot me. My Master put himself in front of me. He didn’t have his saber either. By the time I had mine in my hand again, Ben was already down.”

Tony nodded slowly. “That’s why you’re teaching yourself Jar’kai. Two sabers.”

Peter’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, but he nodded. Tony hesitated a moment before placing a hand on his knee.

“It is a master’s duty to protect his padawan. Above all else. It was not your fault.”

Peter’s face screwed up and Tony worried that he might cry. The Force was tense with the possibility of it. Tony had never had a Force bond with anyone, and was not quite sure how to manipulate it to his benefit, but he knew that he wanted the boy to feel comforted. He tried to will calm into Peter’s mind, and was rewarded when the Force evened back out into a serene pool.

“What if I told you the council does not intend to send you to Bandomeer? What if they intended to reassign you to Master Windu?”

Surprise rippled into the Force, but Peter’s face did not show it. He took a slow breath.

“Master Windu is a great Jedi. I would learn much from him,” he said, his voice measured. It was such a practiced answer, practically straight out of a diplomatics holotext. Tony held back a smile.

“And what would you say if I told you that I wanted you instead?” Tony’s heart was beating hard. He tried not to let his nervousness be felt in their nascent bond, but Peter seemed to pick it up. He met Tony’s gaze straight on.

“I would say that, were it not unbecoming of a Jedi to have a preference, I would prefer you,” he admitted with a small smile.  

Tony allowed himself to grin back for a moment before schooling his features.

“Go back to bed, Peter,” he said, cleaning up his container of bacta. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

“Yes, Master,” Peter chirped. His bow did little to hide his wide smile.

The Force hummed with approval.

 

Tony met with the council at first bell the next morning to request to have Peter as his padawan. After nearly a standard hour of arguing, of acknowledging that yes, he’d sworn never to take a padawan, but this was the will of Force, so you  _have_ to say yes—that hadn’t gone over well—he was leaving the high north spire triumphant.

He went straight to the largest refectory. The moment he entered, his gaze went straight to Peter, as if pulled by a magnet. The boy seemed to be contemplating his breakfast more than eating it. Tony, apparently, was not the only one afflicted with nerves this morning.

Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe Tony should have kept up his vow of never having an apprentice. His own Master had betrayed the Order, and him, and sold Tony into captivity for three months, until he was able to construct a pseudo-lightsaber and escape. He’d felt tainted by the Dark ever since his breakout had led to him fighting his own Master to the death. While Rhodey assured him that he hadn’t struck the killing blow, the Stane had fallen and broken his neck, it still felt like a mark on Tony’s soul. He didn’t want to corrupt someone else, especially not Peter.

But, mistake or not, Peter was his padawan now. And the thought made him surprisingly happy.

He filled his own tray and seated himself across from Peter.

“Master Stark,” Peter greeted, looking eager.

“If you’re going to adopt Jar’kai, you’ll need a crystal for your second blade,” Tony said. Peter nodded, waiting for the news while trying not to seem impatient.

“We leave for Ilum tomorrow morning, Padawan.” Tony tried to keep his face straight, but the corner of his mouth pulled up into a half-smile without his permission.

Peter beamed.

“Yes, Master.”


End file.
